The Bold Adventures of Poins--On the Town

[Rhialto]

Extending his hand, "I am Alan Hale. Soon to be mighty soldier such as your self." Ignoreing the guffaws, he looks at the unarmored one. "Are you a mighty mage? I saw your hawk go flying off. Did it go tell the town of your upcoming arrival?"

While his men laugh for the most part, Helm regards Hale fondly. "Ignore them. Courage, lad, is the finest thing a man may own." He glances at Ventruli. "As for him, he is indeed a mage--but his hawk goes to look for--well, one we are trying to avoid."

Ventruli's eyes snapped open. "The Inspector has left, Helm."

Helm smiles. "Excellent. Tell me, Alan, care to join us? We're looking for brave lads like you."

 

[jkason]

...at the end of the hall, a small statue of Thraunos himself, with a mural of the rest of the Archean pantheon behind him.

A shaggy haired, grey-bearded old man lay on a bench before the god's image, snoring loudly. Weel recognized him as Phandros.

Weel touched the rounded nail he wore on a leather strap hanging from his neck, silently offering a quick prayer of thanks to Thraunos for providing a solid house in which to worship, then he made his way to the bench.

Standing a few feet away so as not to loom over the old man, Weel cleared his throat, calling in what he hoped was a respectful tone "Master Phandros ... sir? I hate to ruin a good nap, but I'm here on church business."

 

[Rhialto]

Weel touched the rounded nail he wore on a leather strap hanging from his neck, silently offering a quick prayer of thanks to Thraunos for providing a solid house in which to worship, then he made his way to the bench.

Standing a few feet away so as not to loom over the old man, Weel cleared his throat, calling in what he hoped was a respectful tone "Master Phandros ... sir? I hate to ruin a good nap, but I'm here on church business."

Phandros leapt up excitedly. "What? Who now? I wasn't napping, I was--meditating. Yes, meditating the grand problem of evil in this world, which touches all of us. Yes." He shook his slightly flabby head, and blinked his heavily lidded eyes, as if trying to recall something. "Now then--church business..." He stared at Weel's outfit for a moment, then gasped. "Church business! Oh, no! You tell the bloody church it can go bugger itself! I've made up my mind, and that's that!" Darting to the corner, he quickly picked up a rather formidable looking mace. "Of course, you would know that, wouldn't you, ehh, boy? I mean, I think we both know the real 'church business' you're here on. So, what'd they promise you, ehh? A deanship, perhaps? Or maybe even--a bishophoric? But I flatter myself--there's no way I'm worth that much. Well, whatever they're paying you, in a few minutes I'll show you that it's not enough, especially when you're standing in front of the gates of whatever Hell the gods have made for the entire blasted, bloody Church of Arch, may they all rot!" He waves his mace threateningly.

 

[Bloodcookie]

Caradoc

"So, Caradoc--now that that's--out of the way, why don't you open up the shop, and I'll join you--shortly."

"Yes, Father," said Caradoc as he rose from the table. As he was exiting the room, he offhandedly remarked "And perhaps now that we're no longer playing host, we'll see business pick up again." He knew that the aspersions being cast by their neighbors, even moreso than the impending arrival of Syran troops, weighed heavily upon his father's mind.

 

[mps42]

Raising his tankard and taking a much smaller drink than appearances would suggest, Graevel ponders the talk of his companions. "Taxes are everywhere and no doubt about it," he says grimly. "I would think, though that they'd put it on the staples. The stuff we GOTTA have. You know, wheat, flour, Fresh fruit and whatnot. S'pose we's all to give up drink tomorrow?" He holds up his hand to hold off the incredulous stares of the others, "not that we WOULD. But if we did, all them taxes would disappear. Makes no sense to me. Maybe that's why I aint in charge."
Graevel cautiously watched his companions, keep his ale mostly in his tankard and brooding all the while.

 

[jkason]

Phandros leapt up excitedly. "What? Who now? I wasn't napping, I was--meditating. Yes, meditating the grand problem of evil in this world, which touches all of us. Yes." He shook his slightly flabby head, and blinked his heavily lidded eyes, as if trying to recall something. "Now then--church business..." He stared at Weel's outfit for a moment, then gasped. "Church business! Oh, no! You tell the bloody church it can go bugger itself! I've made up my mind, and that's that!" Darting to the corner, he quickly picked up a rather formidable looking mace. "Of course, you would know that, wouldn't you, ehh, boy? I mean, I think we both know the real 'church business' you're here on. So, what'd they promise you, ehh? A deanship, perhaps? Or maybe even--a bishophoric? But I flatter myself--there's no way I'm worth that much. Well, whatever they're paying you, in a few minutes I'll show you that it's not enough, especially when you're standing in front of the gates of whatever Hell the gods have made for the entire blasted, bloody Church of Arch, may they all rot!" He waves his mace threateningly.

Startled, Weel took a step back and raised his hands high in what he hoped was a non-threatening stance. He couldn't say he at all approved of the condemnation of his pantheon, but thought it best to delay discussions of cultural sensitivity for a time when he didn't have an irate clergyman poised to crack his skull open.

"I'm entirely sure that my business doesn't require bludgeoning or other violence, Master Phandros." Weel assured the armed ancient.

"That is, unless parchment and sealing wax have suddenly become deadly weapons, in which case it was horribly impolite for no one to have mentioned it to me. I've only a letter to deliver you on behalf of my mentor, Trac Esroh. If, of course, you might hold off braining me long enough for me to present it?"

 

[Rhialto]

"Yes, Father," said Caradoc as he rose from the table. As he was exiting the room, he offhandedly remarked "And perhaps now that we're no longer playing host, we'll see business pick up again." He knew that the aspersions being cast by their neighbors, even moreso than the impending arrival of Syran troops, weighed heavily upon his father's mind.

Cador made a distracted nod. "Worth hoping." He sighed. "How about you take Mr. Melse's coinage to the cashbox, while you're at it. We can at least pretend we've made a sale..."

Else glared at her husband. "Cador--taking that stooge's blood money!"

Cador rolled his eyes. "It isn't blood money, Else--it's just payment for room and board. After all the misery that prat's caused us, we can at least show some profit from it..."

 

[Rhialto]

Startled, Weel took a step back and raised his hands high in what he hoped was a non-threatening stance. He couldn't say he at all approved of the condemnation of his pantheon, but thought it best to delay discussions of cultural sensitivity for a time when he didn't have an irate clergyman poised to crack his skull open.

"I'm entirely sure that my business doesn't require bludgeoning or other violence, Master Phandros." Weel assured the armed ancient.

"That is, unless parchment and sealing wax have suddenly become deadly weapons, in which case it was horribly impolite for no one to have mentioned it to me. I've only a letter to deliver you on behalf of my mentor, Trac Esroh. If, of course, you might hold off braining me long enough for me to present it?"

The moment the words 'Trac Esroh' escape Weel's lips, Phandros immediately calms down, and places the mace back on the floor. "Oh! Esroh sent you! Well, why didn't you say so! Why'd you say you were here on church business? You have no idea what a fright you gave me!" He gives a hearty laugh. "Thraunos be praised! Always time for my old friend Esroh!" He glances at Weel for a moment searchingly. "Let's see--you'd be that acolyte he took up--Welt? Woe? Wessenfras?" The old man shrugs. "Oh, well, I'm sure it will come to me. Come! Tell me how the old boy's doing! Has he kept his voice? They used to call him 'Angel's Throat' Esroh back in seminary." Phandros gives a familiar, nostalgic laugh, and then kneels before the statue of Thraunos. He rubs his hand over the base, causing it to open with a snap, revealing a hidden compartment with a bottle and two small glasses in it. Phandros begins to pour a reddish-brown liquid from the bottle. "Come--share a cup with me. Fine Oskian brandy--aged to perfection. Those Sleurithians know their liquor, even if they're a lot of pretentious bastards who will get what's coming to them one of these days, mark my words." He chuckles, puts down his bottle and sips from his glass. "So how are things in Archea to start with?"

 

[Rhialto]

Raising his tankard and taking a much smaller drink than appearances would suggest, Graevel ponders the talk of his companions. "Taxes are everywhere and no doubt about it," he says grimly. "I would think, though that they'd put it on the staples. The stuff we GOTTA have. You know, wheat, flour, Fresh fruit and whatnot. S'pose we's all to give up drink tomorrow?" He holds up his hand to hold off the incredulous stares of the others, "not that we WOULD. But if we did, all them taxes would disappear. Makes no sense to me. Maybe that's why I aint in charge."
Graevel cautiously watched his companions, keep his ale mostly in his tankard and brooding all the while.

Moran Gull cackles. "Arch's Hard Hand, Graevel, I'm sure glad 'tain't you sittin' on the Golden Throne! We'd be bleedin' gold into yer hands." Most of the other patrons join him in laughter.

Goodman Brown seems less amused. "The way I hear it, that's how they do things in the Empire proper. But as for why he's not doin' it here--oh, Iron Hell, we all know, don't we? Gereint may be yer typical Syran ghit, but he knows there's a limit to how much squeezing we'll take--at least to start. But once he's got us used to it, he'll take a little more--and then a little more--and then a little more--until one day, the bastard's got everything we've got..."

 

[jkason]

Phandros begins to pour a reddish-brown liquid from the bottle. "Come--share a cup with me. Fine Oskian brandy--aged to perfection. Those Sleurithians know their liquor, even if they're a lot of pretentious bastards who will get what's coming to them one of these days, mark my words." He chuckles, puts down his bottle and sips from his glass. "So how are things in Archea to start with?"

Weel lets out a relieved sigh and moves to join the old temple guardian.

"It's Weel, sir, and I could certainly use a little something to wash the road grit down," he confides, reaching to pour himself a drink, as well.

"I don't know how quickly the politics travel, but Inquisitor Melsea and the church of Vale took over Thraunos' management of Stawn a few years ago. I can't say I'm thrilled to lose Thraunos' name on a district, but I figure rulership is rather Vale's thing. Maybe it lets Thraunos' journeymen focus a little more on the work of building?"

Weel takes a drink of his own before continuing.

"Esroh, though ... well, he never would tell me what he thought of the whole affair. I have to say, he did strike me as worried when I brought it up, and when he tasked me with delivering your letter ... Let's just say I thought him unsettled. It's had me more than a little curious as to what he wrote you."

"Which reminds me," Weel finishes, reaching into his backpack to present the letter to Phandros. "This belongs to you."